


You Blew Through Me Like Bullet Holes

by gaily-daily (passionateartist)



Series: bullet holes [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Fuck Or Die, M/M, PWP, This is trash, fiddlestan, i am incapable of writing porn without feelings, i am trash, i need to stop shipping things that hurt me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionateartist/pseuds/gaily-daily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiddleford McGucket has many regrets. Most of them, however, seem to center around one particular person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Blew Through Me Like Bullet Holes

**Author's Note:**

> This stupid fucking crack ship is fucking amazing and I wanted to write some shit so here it is.
> 
> Edit: So after seeing ATOTS I immediately realized that something was going to have to change in my Fiddlestan fics. After some debate I've decided to go back and change Stan's name to his real one as revealed by the show. I wouldn't have bothered if I wasn't planning on continuing this fic but I have lots more stuff in this particular universe that I want to write for and so I decided the best thing to do was change it. So hopefully no one gets confused.
> 
> Also if I missed any changes in the Stanford-to-Stanley conversion let me know and I'll fix it.

The worst part about kissing Stan was that he didn’t know. He didn’t know how Fiddleford felt. He had no real idea. Stan didn’t see all the glances he’d sneak (and there was an embarrassing amount he'd admit). He didn’t notice how Fiddleford went out of his way to make breakfast (a _real_ breakfast, not a packet of dried jerky), how he’d take extra care in mending all of Stanley’s shirts, how he always made sure to restock the first aid kit. Stan didn’t know because he never noticed. And Fiddleford thought he could be okay with that. 

Another aching ripple of need crashes through Fiddleford and he arches into Stanley’s arms. The other man gasps against him, heaving with restraint and desire. Summer in Gravity Falls was always hot, but this was nothing he’d ever experienced before.

The thing was, Fiddleford thought he could be okay with a lot of things. He’d been okay when the first girl he’d ever had a crush on turned him down because he was “too weird.” He’d been okay when he’d been shoved in his locker in 9th grade and no one noticed he was gone until later that evening. And he was okay with admiring Stanley Pines from a respectful distance. He should have known better though. 

He should have known a lot of things.

“F-fuck, Fidds I—oh god...”

“It’s okay.” He pants.

It really wasn’t.

He isn’t sure whether he’s gasping for more air or for more of Stanley’s touch. His thoughts are construed in a jumble of impossible wires that render him unable to do much other than moan and clumsily reach for Stan’s skin. He just needs more. More of everything. It’s too cold and too empty and he knows he needs Stan more than he’s ever needed anything before.

“I can’t...I can’t f-fight it.”

Fiddleford had never really liked going out into the forest in the first place. It was dangerous and filled with unimaginable creatures and plant-life alike all ready to eat his face off. The most innocent-looking bush could be a fire-breathing lizard in disguise (and even while running for their lives Stanford had thought the Bush Dragon was the physical manifestation of Christmas). 

He liked working with Stanford. And he liked being a part of the Mystery Trio team that they made. But the forest had always creeped him out. Maybe he was just tired of being scared. Maybe he just wanted to contribute something more to the team other than making breakfast and mending shirts. But, for whatever reason, he had still found himself here; in the shade of the trees, fallen under the spell by the very aphrodisiac plants he’d been trying to collect samples from. He’d be embarrassed at how easily he’d been overcome by a mere plant had he had any sense left in his brain besides the unquenchable desire to get his clothes off.

Fiddleford doesn’t remember exactly how they got to this point. He doesn’t remember finding the clearing, or discovering Stanley and yelling at him for following because he was _not_ a weak nerd who couldn’t take care of himself in the Big Bad Forest of Doom. He doesn’t remember the dizziness that overtook them both in a sudden rush. But he remembers the way Stanley had looked at him then, pupils blown wide with lust, and gazing at him like he was the most important person in the world. Fiddleford remembers standing still, so achingly still, as Stan slowly approached him. 

The rest of it was a blur really. The only thing Fiddleford could think or feel in the following moments was Stanley. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Their mouths crushed together as the very air around them turned hot with desire.

They’re tearing at each other’s clothes now as their patience fades with their state of mind. Fingers forget how to undo buttons, tongues forget how to speak, and they rut like animals against the tree trunk. Fiddleford scrambles against the bark, fingernails searching for grip, digging into the wood as Stan dry humps against him. Hands continuously run through his hair, partially freeing it of the twigs and dirt it managed to gather in their mad scramble for skin.

Stan yanks Fiddleford’s undershirt up and, not even waiting for it to be over and off his head yet, ducks down and bites the other man’s skin. Fiddleford gasps, whimpering under Stan’s mouth. He wiggles against the bigger man as he pulls the rest of the shirt off his head and wraps his hands around Stan’s shoulders. They were just as incredibly wide and strong as he’d always pictured them to be. Sturdy enough to hold him up and keep him in place.

They fall more than sink to the ground. Twigs and leaves gather and knot in Fiddleford’s hair as he withers on the ground underneath the other man. He reaches up with trembling hands to dig into Stanley’s hot skin. 

_More,_ he thinks, _just a little more_. And then maybe his feelings would reach him this time. Just this once.

Fiddleford had never had sex with another man before. Once, he had driven to a sex shop for an experimental dildo. He ended up eyeing the store from his car for twenty minutes before finally driving home, embarrassed and horny. 

He knew without a doubt that Stan’s sexual history only pertained to women. He was as straight as he was stubborn. So it came as a small surprise when Stan stopped nuzzling his crotch (“Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop!”) with pools of worry in his eyes.

“I don’t... _fuck_ , Fidds, t-there’s no lube.”

It was a struggle just to form words, let alone coherent thoughts. Fiddleford would be amazed at the level of Stan’s restraint if his entire body wasn’t revolting in agony from being deprived of the man’s mouth. He shakes his head furiously.

“Doesn’t matter.” He says through clenched teeth.

“Fidds—“

“Fuck me!” Fiddleford cries, arching underneath the other man in desperation. “Please, _please_ Stan! I n-need...” he can’t finish the sentence. He wants to tell Stan he needs him. That he wants him, he’s always wanted him. But not like this. 

Every second they spend not glued to each other’s skin is an agony he’s never known. It makes him want to cry and scream in childish frustration. The very veins in Fiddleford’s body pulsate with hot and heavy need. He can’t live with this empty, desperate feeling much longer. 

The worry leaves Stan’s eyes, quickly replaced by desire. He leans down, kissing Fiddleford again who whines gratefully into his mouth. Fiddleford commits to memory every inch and corner of Stanford’s tongue, teeth, and lips. He wants to remember this forever. He wants to remember the way they twist together, sucking and swallowing each other’s taste. He wants this breathless, dizzy feeling to be burned into his skin.

Stan pushes him down into the dirt like he belongs there underneath him. There’s a deep aching in Fiddleford—an ache he’s denied long before he set out into the woods that afternoon—whining for Stan to dominate him. He shouldn’t like being held down. He shouldn’t like the feel of grass and dirt grinding against his naked skin. But the hands at his wrists are like fire and ice and his blood sings at the touch. He worships every kiss and lick Stan graces his skin with. 

Stan leans back, licking Fiddleford’s chin, and moving to spit onto his fingers. Fiddleford spreads his legs further open, gripping his trembling legs in his hands. It feels downright dirty to be stripped bare out in the open like this. The hot summer air caresses his skin as Fiddleford spreads himself before Stan’s hungry gaze. He’s never liked the idea of sex outside of the bedroom. He supposes he’s just not that adventurous that way. Stanley probably loved the sight of him; naked and hot, ready to be penetrated by him. A whine works its way up his throat. If he had more of a grasp on the English language in his current state he’d be begging right now.

The first intrusion is rough, as rough as could be expected. Fiddleford closes his eyes and focuses on nothing but the feel of the other man’s fingers. By the time the third finger slides in Fiddleford is glad that the plant’s properties amplify pleasure more than pain for he’s sure that the stretch would’ve been unbearable otherwise. 

Everything is crashing inside of him as Stan sits back, readying his cock against Fiddleford’s hole. This was actually happening. They were really going to have sex right here and now in the dirt. His senses, nerves, and emotions are swirling together in a heavy mixture that make his stomach churn. He’s utterly powerless. His body and mind are useless against his baser desires. Fiddleford can do nothing but tremble in the mix of terrifying lust. He squeezes his eyes shut. He couldn’t do this. _He couldn’t do this._

Fiddleford barely registers the touch of fingers gently falling across his cheeks. His eyes slide open, blinking rapidly at the blurred image of Stan leaving over him. Where there should have been tearing and clawing and _need_ for skin, Stan is a wall of barely controlled flesh. He breathes in painful haggard breaths as he softly caresses Fiddleford’s thighs.

“Fidds,” he rasps, barely holding on, “you o-okay?”

He has never once seen Stanley display this amount of strained control before. The man was always one to jump head first, no questions asked, never caring for the consequences. It moves something inside of Fiddleford. Even as the sweat drips down their bodies, sex invading every one of their senses, Stanley _still_ does not let go of the last threads of his mind. Whereas Fiddleford, however, is a withering mess beneath him. He’s panting, _moaning_ , barely struggling for breath. He needs him so badly, please, please, _**please**_... 

A strangled noise makes its way past his lips and he quickly bites the tip of his tongue to stop the embarrassing entourage of sounds. He turns away, unable to look into Stan’s face any longer. He jerks his head in a nod. Silently telling him to continue.

When Stan pushes in, Fiddleford feels a horrifying mixture of relief and an unbearable stretch of pain crash into his soul. If he’d ever entertained the idea of telling Stanley Pines how he’d felt, every hope was shattered then and there. He could never tell him. He could never tell a soul.

Every time Stan thrusts in, Fiddleford flexes around him, wanting to keep him and this moment buried deep inside. And every time he pulls out, the aching emptiness returns and Fiddleford arches his back for more. He can barely see Stan’s face through his tears. But he’s glad in a way. Glad that he can’t see that look of worry that had been there before. If this is the only way he’ll ever have him, then Fiddleford wants Stan to come undone inside of him just as much as he’s made Fiddleford come undone too.

It doesn’t take very long for their desire-ridden bodies to come to climax. Stan doesn’t look at him when he comes inside of him. He buries his face in Fiddleford’s hair and holds on, thrusting one last time deep into him and breathing hard against his ear. Stan barely gets in a few strokes of Fiddleford’s cock before the smaller man comes as well. A primal satisfaction sparks through the engineer as he sees his own cum on Stan’s chest, but the feeling is quickly replaced by guilt and he hastily shoves the thought away. Stanley nuzzles his hair, gently and quietly, before sighing heavily and shifting to lie down beside him on the grass.

Fiddleford can feel his thoughts creep back into his brain one by one as the urges quietly slip out. He becomes steadily aware of the sticks in his back, the dirt under his nails, and the cum running down his thighs. Stan lies beside him, eyes closed, still panting and struggling to gather his senses. Fiddleford swallows. He didn’t want to get up just yet. Not yet. 

When Stan opens his eyes everything in Fiddleford freezes. He waits for the disappointment. He waits for him to pull away. He waits for the realization of what they just did to fall down upon both their shoulders.

Stanley shifts and Fiddleford braces himself for the inevitable. Stan would pull away any second now, he’d put on his clothes, and then they wouldn’t ever talk about this again. They would never share another kiss, or hold each other’s hands. And then Fiddleford would go back to ignoring his feelings. Only this time, it would be a hundred times worse.

Fingers brush against his cheek as Stanley leans down to press their foreheads together. Fiddleford goes very, very still.

“I’m sorry.” Stan breathes against his skin.

He’s tired, bruised, and sticky but Fiddleford feels his heart jump in his throat and he suddenly wants to cry all over again.

 _It’s okay_ , he means to say but his lips fail him. _I’m fine_ , he wants to tell him, but he only closes his eyes and shivers.

 _It’s not your fault_. 

Stanley gets up first; stiffly dressing himself and gathering Fiddleford’s clothes for him. He hands Fiddleford his shirt and pants and turns his back to give the smaller man the illusion of privacy. Fiddleford struggles to pull his pants up over himself for so long Stan actually turns to look; silently asking if he needed any help. Shame colors Fiddleford’s cheeks and he looks away. Angry, he zips up his pants and pushes away from the support of the tree.

He regrets his decision almost instantaneously as his knees buckle underneath him when a ripping pain shoots up his spine. Stan is immediately at his side. He crouches forward with worry in his brown eyes. Fiddleford hates the look of utter guilt in the man’s face. He wants to reassure him. But he can’t.

Stan’s face hardens in decision and he turns around offering his back to him. 

“Get on.” His voice is gruff and masked with a thousand emotions that Fiddleford can’t even begin to decipher. 

“I can walk—“

 _“No you can’t.”_ Stan growls. “Get on.”

Stan’s shoulders are stiff with tension and self-anger. It was only a few minutes ago Fiddleford had been gripping them as they’d held him fast against a tree. 

Quietly, Fiddleford climbs onto his back and tries not to think about the way Stan smells. He closes his eyes tightly and buries his face into his neck. Stan’s arms wrap around his legs as he stands both of them up off the ground. He was warm too. The reassuring kind of warmth that nestled in your stomach and settled within you like an embrace.

It had taken a while for Fiddleford to befriend the man he’d first thought of as the oafish twin brother of Stanford Pines. Even longer to discover the man’s secret softer side. The thought brings a sudden fierceness that boils beneath his skin. Fiddleford regrets thinking so lowly of Stanley for those first few weeks he’d known him. Because the awful truth of the matter was that Stanley Pines was not an oafish idiot at all. He was terribly and utterly kind. The heart-of-gold kind that you found in storybooks and TV dramas. The type of person who hid his kindness beneath layers of jokes and insults so that others didn’t take advantage of the fact. Stanley was the type of man to always take the guilt. He always tried to fix other people’s problems and when he couldn’t he took the blame.

Fiddleford wishes, not the first time, that he could just forget about his feelings for Stanley Pines.

It wouldn’t be until later, when he’s hiding underneath a mountain of blankets in the emptiness of his own home, when he finally allows himself to recall the beads of sweat and pain on Stanley’s face as he fought against his basic urges under the dizzying effect of the plant. It won’t be until he’s standing dejectedly in front of the mirror that he examines the bite marks and bruises on his skin and lets himself reminisce how Stanley was so very careful not to hurt him in their desperate grappling. 

It won’t be until much, much later the memory of Stan’s face as he fucked him—utterly wrecked with ecstasy and overflowing guilt—floats to the surface of Fiddleford’s mind. As if Stan had truly believed he’d been the one at fault for following Fiddleford into the forest in the first place. 

_(And yet he’d still held him close and whispered gently—so gently—trying to protect Fiddleford from himself.)_

Fiddleford doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t sleep for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Werewolf by Cocorosie 
> 
> b/c I cry evrytim I hear it


End file.
